I Have No Mouse And I Must Scream
by Dead Composer
Summary: Scratchy the Cat looks back at his miserable existence.


This fic is rated PG.

Disclaimer: Matt Groening owns The Simpsons.

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It didn't hurt at all when I came into existence. Someone drew me, I'm not sure who, and endowed me with the cleverness and wit of the great cartoon cats of old--Tom, Garfield, Heathcliff, Top Cat. They were my idols, and I wanted to pattern my life after them, perhaps even exceed their achievements. The brightly-colored cartoon world I inhabited seemed like the perfect venue to do that.

Then the mouse showed up.

At first I figured there was more than one mouse, and part of the show would revolve around my attempts to capture them. I wasn't expecting to be the star of a blatant Tom and Jerry ripoff (er, homage). So I tried to get friendly with the mouse, and find out what his take on the situation was. Man, was I stupid.

"So what do I do now?" I asked the smirking rodent. "Chase you? Eat you?"

He only nodded. The little fellow wasn't much for talking.

"Okay," I agreed. "It's not very original, but a gig's a gig."

The mouse seemed nice enough, and I didn't really want to hurt him (at the time), so I pounced on him rather halfheartedly. That's when I learned in a quite painful manner that the mouse took his role very seriously.

He had somehow hidden a huge meat cleaver behind his back. It was three times as tall as he was. (You gotta love cartoon logic.) So when I pounced, I landed on the pointy end of the cleaver instead of on the mouse.

Now you may be wondering, do cartoon characters feel pain? The answer is, yes, we do. Every emotion you viewers experience, we experience as well, to an exaggerated degree. To give you an idea, imagine opening your phone bill and being so shocked at the amount that your eyes literally pop out of their sockets. That's the reality we live with.

But I digress. As I lay there impaled on the meat cleaver, in excruciating agony, leaking generous amounts of cartoon blood, the full, inescapable horror of my situation dawned on me--just in time for the next episode to start. My wounds healed instantaneously, and I was in perfect animated health again. I was no longer inside a house in the suburbs, but on a missile testing range in the Nevada desert.

I knew it was stupid to panic, but I panicked anyway. I had to get out of the cartoon somehow, or at least evade the missiles until the episode ended. But these were no ordinary missiles--they were cat-seeking missiles, and I was a cat. Fortunately the pain of my flesh being blasted from my bones was brief.

It started all over again, but with a different title card (they seemed to get more sadistic with each show). I was lashed to a pole with hemp ropes, and the mouse, who had formed his own personal cult on a tropical island, was about to torch me as a sacrifice to the mouse idol.

I could bear no more. The mouse had to be stopped. I thought that if I killed him, the series might be cancelled, allowing me to move on to better things. Exerting all my feline strength, I burst the cords and fled from the angry mob of superstitious mice. The only way off the island was by sea, so I forgot my natural aversion to water and began to swim. Somehow the sharks knew right where to find me.

One episode followed another, and I devised many stratagems to do away with the mouse, but to no avail. Whenever I came close, the critter managed to pull yet another huge, razor-sharp blade out of his...his pocket. I was sliced to ribbons so many times, I was afraid I'd start to enjoy the torture. After a season of such punishment, I decided to try a different, more peaceful approach. I invited the mouse to dinner at a fancy restaurant, hoping for a chance to discuss and overcome our differences. It seemed like we were making progress when the little fellow poured me a glass of what appeared to be wine. You know the rest of that story.

The mouse finally accepted my proposal for one peaceful, non-violent episode, but only one. It was the only moment of clarity and happiness in my pain-wracked existence. He prepared a pitcher of (acid-free) lemonade, and we sat in rocking chairs on the porch, enjoying the delicious drink.

If only every episode could be like that. If only the mouse and I could be friends. I know he's capable of kindness, and I can only guess that the studio is holding his loved ones for ransom.

My torment continues unabated, cheered on by the masses of undiscriminating children (and, sad to say, a few adults). My only hope is cancellation, but then the show would doubtlessly be replaced by something even more appallingly violent, perhaps with a dog suffering gruesome deaths at the paws of a heartless cat.

With any luck, I'll get to play the cat.


End file.
